Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometime
by Lone Tube Sock
Summary: Quinn fell in love when she was six years old. AU Faberry
1. Chapter 1

Quinn fell in love when she was six years old. Back when her parents were still having sex (and not just to make babies for Jesus) and sitters were indispensable fixtures in the Fabray household. Between church socials, shuffles to and from soccer, choir, gymnastics, cello, aikido, and ballet, and Mr. Fabray's seemingly eternal climb to the cutthroat upper echelon of his father-in-law's firm, affection was one of the commodities Quinn sought from the steady rotation of shallowly wholesome teenage girls Mrs. Fabray enlisted from venues she referred to as "halo havens," mostly church and organic grocery stores.

She had been six and Rachel 16. The crush outlasted Quinn's first baby tooth, two tumultuous imaginary relationships with equally imaginary friends, an orange phase, a tutu phase and even Quinn's pet guinea pig Lazarus. Rachel was different—Quinn's grandparents called it Jewish, whatever _that_ meant. Quinn didn't care if Rachel was Jewish, even if it made her grandpa scrunch his nose like a whiff of something sour because Rachel always made her feel special.

Rachel never cushioned answers with Biblical references when Quinn asked innocuous questions like the other girls had. Rachel never spoke to her in confusing condescending tones that managed to sound both counterproductively clipped and syrupy at the same time and Rachel definitely never invited sweaty boys over to gnash teeth with when Quinn simply wanted to play Chutes & Ladders. No, Rachel coached her on form, helped her with math, science, finger placements and notes, vocal warm-ups and dance numbers and beaded sequins when her guinea pig replacement, a Labradoodle named Moe, ate half of her winter recital gown.

Rachel peeled on gold star stickers when she behaved and _really_ listened when Quinn spoke, even if it was only to share some whimsical if entirely paltry observation about ladybugs. Best of all, Rachel always sang her to sleep and Quinn thought she sounded prettier than the people on the radio. When Quinn suffered a mild scrape or niggling bump of misfortune, she'd make herself cry harder, sometimes to the point of physical illness just so Rachel would rock her tight and croon.

Quinn didn't understand why Rachel _had_ to leave Lima after graduation. Looking back, sure, she wanted Rachel to actualize her potential and all that, but why did she have to fulfill her dreams at the expense of geographical convenience? She'd been at Rachel's graduation ceremony, traced the trajectory of her graduation cap as it was heaved into the stodgy pre-summer air. The last time she'd seen Rachel, a couple days before her New York departure, she'd ripped off the star-shaped brooch Rachel had pinned to her blouse and hurled it at the ground. She remembered yelling, "I hate you!" and her eight-year-old voice had been shrilly and contemptuous and heartbroken. She'd later sent Rachel an apology gram that was more glitter than anything else. Gold, blue, and red flecks had christened Rachel's studio apartment when the brunette pried the priority mail envelope open the Thursday afternoon she'd received it.

Mutual correspondence between them had lasted another year before Rachel's replies dawdled into trickles or plugged up bursts and then one Frankenstein sort of conglomeration of holidays before simply fizzling dead. Quinn rationalized that Rachel's life had gotten too busy and glamorous to bother with artless niceties. After all, who had time to placate stupid inelegant Midwestern girls when they were trying to be famous? Rachel didn't need her, heck, Rachel didn't even want her in her life. Not when she had glitz and the New York City skyline.

So Quinn grew up. She sold out, traded Rachel's gold brooch for make-up and after school gossip, for the footings of a prosperous adolescent social life and later, the holy grail of status symbols: a glossy _Cheerios_ uniform. Meanwhile, Rachel bussed tables and shared a one bedroom flat with five people and was fired and mugged and evicted in one breadth. She slept on friends' couches and subway cars for a whole week. And then there was a stretch where Rachel served fro-yo and moved into a two bedroom flat with seven people and hooked up with a theater troupe and starred in non-profit dramas and one musical. She starved and scarcely subsisted on Ramen, hope and sheer determination for weeks, months, more. She hocked cell phones and bootleg purses and sang at weddings on weekends. And one night, one hungry, desperate night that bled into all the others, a wild thing happened… _Rachel was discovered._

The skeletal production proved to be a bombshell breakthrough hit for both Rachel and the local theater company, garnering buzz and more importantly, the critical acclaim that granted Rachel access to the silver screen.

So Rachel grew up. She sold out, traded stage directions for camera directions and artistic integrity for six figure paychecks, the East Coast for the West Coast. She accepted statuettes and raised funds for charities and spoke at galas and rustled up her first seven figure paycheck. She smoked pot out of Swarovski crystal encrusted Roor bongs with movie moguls and drank more booze than she ate and had cigarettes for breakfast and dessert and railed coke, but only sometimes. And then she got a DUI and some sponsors got spooked and production on her next projected blockbuster was halted until the studio deep-pockets were convinced she'd been absolved by the public. So Rachel's agent shipped her back to Lima in a cumbersome pair of Oakley sunglasses where she was to stay with her dads and complete outpatient treatment at an obscure rehabilitation facility "until further notice."

Naturally, Rachel was mortified. Rehab was for rich baseheads, not impulsive Hollywood starlets in-the-making. She drew comfort from the notion that she'd clawed her way out of Lima once and presented with an ultimatum, she'd do it again.

Upon entering her childhood bedroom, Rachel couldn't help but cringe at the noxious levels of placenta pink that greeted her, outright swarmed her senses and screamed. Rachel felt like she was inside of a womb. She sank onto her mattress and sighed. Below, her dads were fussing over the details of a proper homecoming dinner, above hung a painfully overstated motivational poster she'd trussed up when she was an annoyingly ambitious teenager.

_God_, Rachel rationalized, tucking her arms behind her head, _coming back to Lima is like getting demoted_, but despite her feelings of shame, dread and deprecation, Rachel shut her eyes and did something she hadn't done since before she was discovered, drifted off into a fitless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Performing gave Quinn a feeling her mother had once explicitly labeled "un-Christian," but Quinn didn't care, and why would she? She had allowed her mother to rule every other waking hour of her life; toed the line and bowed her head and fulfilled every last one of her mother's asinine expectations with the disposition of a saint. She'd even attended a mortifying, borderline incestuous father-daughter purity ball at her mother's urgency with little regard to McKinley's reception. Quinn's social life had managed to dodge the ordeal unscathed, but that was beside the point—she'd promised her virginity to her (equally horrified) father, the damage had been done. And although Mrs. Fabray seemed to be under the impression that she was the sole proprietor of Quinn's life and thusly entitled to sorting out her ensuing life choices, Quinn liked to believe that one day things would be inexplicably different.

It's why she joined Glee Club against her mother's high-pitched counsel and why, even after innumerable GPS-navigated guilt trips and dry crying spells, Quinn chose to remain an active member. Glee Club was the only decision that truly belonged to Quinn. It was a reaffirming notion, resounding evidence that while her hopes may have been smothered to within an inch of death, it was in-tact and lying dormant somewhere her mother could never, or so she prayed, pry open and steal.

As the alpha Cheerio, Quinn dictated Santana and Brittany's every non-Cheerio activity, from skin care regimens to eating schedules to workout routines. Some months ago, she'd taken it upon herself to draft and ordain a mandatory Glee Club attendance policy and over time, her counterparts had grown to embrace Glee Club too. She'd even gotten her _lunkheaded_, but more importantly-she reminded herself-_ideal_, boyfriend Finn to squeeze Glee Club in-between football practice and math tutoring. He in turn recruited teammates and then, nearly overnight, the once lacking Glee Club had a qualifying head count. Mr. Schuester gave them direction and inspiration and musical sets and most of all, confidence in themselves and in one another.

It was all very surreal and poetic and just about to, Quinn suspected, get even better. She'd rallied the troops at sectionals and Mr. Schuester had been proud, he'd told her so himself. This morning he'd called the gleeks into the practice room and treated them to bagels and hot drinks and they'd lazed around and marveled at their trophy. It was shiny and in all fairness, the size of a healthy albeit small child, a righteous cause for gloating by any megalomaniac's standard let alone the runt of McKinley's extracurricular line-up.

Quinn was the first to claim the Cheerios' usual grazing area during lunch hour. Her journey down the chrome foodline had been relatively brusque as nearly everyone had invited her to jump in front of them, and what was she to do but graciously accept their offers? She picked soup, an apple and a bottle of juice, but she'd really wanted a slice of pizza. It didn't matter anyway. Santana and Brittany would soon emerge from their American Literature class and they'd all be eating tomato-based soup and apples instead of pizza.

She twisted the cap off her orange juice and sighed in relief when she caught Santana and Brittany beelining towards her. Brittany smiled and waved as she always did and Quinn returned the gesture. There was something _off _about Santana. The dark haired Cheerio was known for her abrasiveness, sure. She had long ago learned that accosting life with a devious glare meant less boo-boos, but today, Quinn thought she looked downright sinister which meant one of two things, either Santana had concocted a foolproof plan to dethrone her once and for all, or the Latina was privy to something that directly or indirectly involved Quinn.

See, by that Monday afternoon, rumors of Rachel Berry's arrival had spread throughout McKinley's ranks like last spring's venereal disease. Rachel was the biggest thing in and out of Lima since Yotufi, a yogurt-like tofu-based fruit-flavored snack that was later, almost immediately, yanked off commercial and consumer shelves alike due to "formulaic errors," which was, everyone reckoned, probably just a fancy way of saying Yotufi tasted like shit-because it did.

Rachel, on the other hand, was a certifiable movie star. On her way to, as far as American demographics were concerned, the A list.

The rumors began with Chiffon Beatty's penchant for Kilimanjaro Smoothies. It didn't matter who Chiffon Beatty was because, in all honesty, she'd been an invariable nobody since she entered Lima's public school system back in 3rd grade. Anyway, Chiffon had stopped by the shop for a post-workout peanut butter smoothie and there she was, Rachel freaking Berry, hooked up to an iPod and sipping on something pink, looking like she'd rather be _anywhere_ else. Rachel was wearing customary celebrity blinders—shades that swallowed half her face, and although the simple illusionary tool had fooled every other patron, Chiffon Beatty, founder of both and , had known.

As the rumor went, Chiffon had then approached the starlet with a napkin and a pen she'd procured from the listless attendant behind the counter. Doug was his name.

Rachel had responded with a strained smile which Chiffon would later describe as cagey. The brunette casually glanced behind her shoulders, simultaneously fuming on the inside and on the verge of crapping her pants. She hoped beyond hope that no one else had caught on, _and they hadn't_, much to her relief.

She beckoned Chiffon near and offered her another smile, a delicate one, well, as delicate as she could possibly muster at 5am. "Thank you," she had said, quickly scribbling out a signature. It was rushed and sloppy, not as elaborate or fanciful as some of the photocopies Chiffon had seen on the internet, but it would have to suffice.

Rachel slid the pen back and said, "I'd appreciate it if you kept this between us. No one's supposed to know I'm here."

Chiffon had nodded empathetically and assured Rachel that she wouldn't tell a soul, not her best friend Samantha or her dad or her cousin Jimbo. Rachel had thanked her, smiled—genuinely this time-and plugged her ears back up, wordlessly dismissing the girl and her peanut butter smoothie.

But Chiffon did tell her dad and Jimbo and her best friend Samantha and then she'd told anyone who would listen and those people in turn had told anyone else that would listen, and now, Santana was beelining towards Quinn with intentions of relaying what had started out as privileged information but had morphed into fodder for McKinley's notoriously ravenous gossip mill.

"Hi, Quinn," said Brittany, smiling brightly.

"Hey."

"Q," greeted Santana, perching on the stool to her left, "Did you hear?"

Quinn took a sip of her orange juice. "What?" she said.

"Your girlcrush Rachel Berry is in town."

Quinn's face and lungs burned as she choked on her second sip of orange juice. Once she sorted through her breathing and assorted panic, she glared at Santana and said, too tight-lipped and too straight-faced to be taken seriously, "I do _not_ have a girlcrush—"

"Loosen up, chastity belt," laughed Santana, relishing in having picked at Quinn's hot-button issue. "I'm joking. Don't worry, okay? Jesus isn't listening. And if he is, I'm sorry for committing blasphemy, Quinn's the straightest arrow in the whole quiver. Happy?"

Quinn shifted uncomfortably. She glowered despite the _sort of_ good-nature of it all. She never should have confided in Santana of all people. Granted, they had been 14 and sloshed beyond reasonable comprehension and the other girl-to this day-had never told anyone else (besides Brittany). Still, it didn't stop Santana from teasing her about the fierce crush she'd once had on a fiery-eyed babysitter. It seemed like a lifetime ago, really. She'd long since detached herself from those sorts of romantic ideations, flights of fancy, whatever. Notions involving Rachel Berry were dangerous and best kept locked away in some kind of mental limbo,_ never_ to be revisited or rehashed again.

"Anyway," said Santana, snapping Quinn back into reality (which the girl was desperately grateful for). "Chiffon Beatty's been flashing an autograph around. Brittany saw it in 1st period, she thinks it's legit."

"Totally," said Brittany.

"Oh please," huffed Quinn. "Chiffon Beatty is on medication."

Santana sniveled and said, "So am I." It was a sore spot.

"Birth control and anti-depressants don't count," Quinn said gently before locking back on her point, "Chiffon Beatty is on heavy stuff, Santana. Anti-psychotics and tranquilizers."

"How do you know that?"

"I volunteered at the nurse's station last semester, remember?"

"Well, whatever."

And just like that, Chiffon Beatty's star-sighting was discounted as little more than a buoyant delusion, and Rachel Berry was safe from the likes of crazed fans and the ever-sniffing nose of the soul-sucking paparazzi—at least for now.

So why did Quinn find herself awake that night? In anguish over the minute possibility that Rachel Berry could have returned to Lima? That the brunette was staring up at the same bevy of stars? There was no rational answer and there probably never would be, and upon that realization, Quinn made another decision that her mother would certainly never approve of. She shrugged into a jacket and stepped into a pair of shoes and tiptoed down the hall and down the stairs and out the door well past her curfew. She chanced a final glance up at her parents' bedroom window and braced herself before turning the ignition. She held her breath as she backed out of the driveway, expecting the world to end or God's omnipotent fist to smash through the sky and envelope her car, but _nothing_ happened.

The stars didn't give way to thunder or lightning, and Quinn liked to think that their twinkles were blessings from the cosmos, maybe not God, but surely something greater than herself and at that moment, it was enough.

She remembered the way to Rachel's house like it was her own. She had pushed and peddled her bicycle down that very road countless times, even after Rachel had taken off to New York. Her dads had let her sleep in Rachel's room, allowed her to draw comfort from Rachel's things like she imagined they did when they missed Rachel themselves.

_Wow_, Quinn sighed as her car stalled across the street from the serene Berry residence, _it looks just the same._

Quinn swallowed hard and folded her arms across her chest. She wasn't sure what to do next so she simply ducked low in her seat and waited.


	3. Chapter 3

Rachel was drunk. Piss drunk, sans left heel, but still miraculously functional. It was 3am and she had just been declared sole victor of Lima's bi-weekly beer crawl. She'd gone incognito, in a fitted wig that poorly complimented her complexion and an outfit Rachel Berry the movie star would never be caught dead in.

Okay, Lima was getting to her. She was only three days in and the town was already ruminating on a sizable chunk of her _soul_. Boldly gnawing away at the extension of the morsel it had stolen back when she was still in high school.

She'd caved upon finding the beer crawl flyers, balled up like bread crumbs on her way back from the yoga studio. She told her dads she was going to a mandatory after-hours NA meeting instead. The ease in which she'd lied through clenched teeth terrified her and worse yet, _for what_? The promise of empty comforts? The implications were unnerving.

Rachel tried her best to discredit the guilt needling away at the shadowy recesses of her brain, but it had persisted, bolstering her thirst throughout the night.

The turnout had been less than desirable, seasoned Lima drunks and wily college kids, but at the end of the night, they'd given her a golden mug, slapped a blank sticker across the baseplate and scribbled her pseudonym (Lisa Butler) in whatever Sharpie was on hand. It was nice, mildly embarrassing, but nice.

The few still buzzing around the alcoholic watering hole had applauded, and it had made her stomach twist in want of the life she'd had merely three days ago…

If Rachel was guilty of any addiction, her drug of choice was the bright banner euphoria of fame. Everything else—the drugs, the booze, the sex—was supplementary. A co-occurrence, really.

Now all Rachel wanted to do was collapse into bed and crawl out when the whole PR nightmare was over. She managed to stick the right key in the lock and stumble inside with minimal ruckus, just a single depth perception fluke involving the umbrella stand. She giggled and slid a finger over her lips to admonish the noisy umbrella stand. "Shh," she urged, "You'll wake my fathers."

"Too late for that," said Paul. Artificial light flooded the room and Rachel groaned, shielding her eyes like Nosferatu.

Jerry remained unmoved, stoic as the night a 15-year-old Rachel had totaled his beloved candy-finished Camaro. "Are you drunk?" he said, tilting Rachel's chin up.

Rachel turned her head away, "I'm an adult—"

"Could have fooled me!"

"As I was saying," Rachel continued, twisting her fingers nervously, "as an adult I think that I am entitled to certain liberties and-"

"Not when you get a goddam DUI, you're not!"

Paul placed a hand on his husband's shoulder, "Jerry, _please_—"

"Do you think your father and I like seeing you like this?" Jerry said, voice strangled. "What happened to you, Rachel? I look at you and I don't even recognize my own daughter anymore."

Rachel drew back, insides lurching. It was a devastating admission, one that she couldn't ignore, but wasn't quite ready to address. Her arms fell slack as she stared at the hardwood floors, tongue heavy, thick, and inoperable.

"Rachel," said Paul, "We think someone might know you're here."

"Impossible," she said, words a breathless whisper. An arctic fear swirled to the tips of her toes as she stalked towards the window and shoved the curtains aside.

"It's been there for hours," sighed Paul, "and it's not the neighbors'."

Rachel seethed at the sight of the modest red car parked so brazenly across the street. So much for her handlers! Which one of her frenemies had leaked her coordinates to the press? Carol? Justin? Kevin? Kevin. Of course! The rat bastard! How many pieces of silver had he received, she wondered. How many pieces of silver was she worth?

Fury consumed her. She'd have to take care of this one herself. She chose her Excalibur from the umbrella stand, and unsheathed it in one gallant tug.

"Rachel," warned Jerry, easing towards her, "_don't._"

But it was too late, Rachel was flying out the door, weapon drawn and nostrils flared in indignation. She zipped across the otherwise peaceful street, panicked dads dutifully trailing behind her, and upon approaching the sleeping car, reared the umbrella back to shatter the paparazzo's window.


	4. Chapter 4

Quinn awoke with a start, all air escaping her body at once.

Rachel bared her teeth and swung again, denting the hood. "What's wrong with you assholes?" she raged. "You're screwing with people's lives, you know!"

Quinn tucked her head between her elbows as Rachel systematically destroyed each headlight before turning on the driver's side window, leaving jagged glass teeth in the umbrella's wake.

Before Rachel could knock the glass teeth down, her dads clamped their hands around her arms and lifted her clear off the ground. She struggled and they lifted her higher. "Enough," said Jerry. "Get in the house before you make an even bigger mess. Now!"

Rachel whimpered as she retreated, impetuous anger crumbling to an all-consuming shame.

"I'll make sure she's okay," said Paul, rubbing a hand across his husband's shoulder.

Jerry approached the battered car, glass crunching beneath his suede slippers, "Hello?"

Upon further inspection, the paparazzo in question looked very familiar. The poor girl seemed to be in shock, and who could blame her?

When the girl finally glanced up, Jerry grimaced, he recognized those hazel eyes anywhere. "Quinnie," he said gently. "It's alright. It's Jerry, you remember me? Rachel's dad?"

Quinn nodded numbly, rubbing at her ears, hoping to dull the ringing, to drown out the unremitting wail of her car alarm.

"Do you want me to call your parents?"

"No!" she gasped, panicked. "I mean, no, it's okay. I can drive myself."

"I think you should come inside, honey, you look a little shaken up."

Quinn swallowed, half listening. Her car was ruined. Her parents were going to kill her. At least she_ hoped _they'd kill her. Death she could handle. In fact she welcomed it over every other alternative her parents had ever threatened her with. The prospect of death was vastly superior to the prospect of being "married" to God and living her life out in some Salsburyian mountain-top nunnery a la _The Sound of Music_.

Quinn shuddered-vastly superior.

"Don't worry about the car, sweetie," he said softly, easing her onto her feet. "We'll take care of everything. I'm so sorry. I don't know what's gotten into Rachel, she's just…," he sighed, reluctant to pawn any more of his daughter's reckless behavior off on stress, "I don't know…"

_That was Rachel?_ Quinn frowned. Her Rachel? She hadn't really seen the assailant, it was dark and it had happened in one raucous blur. And even when Jerry was speaking to her, it hadn't really dawned on her that he was Jerry Berry, _the_ Jerry Berry. "Mr. Berry?" she said, dazed.

"That's right, Quinn," he smiled. "Come on, I'll help you inside."

Jerry hissed once he saw Quinn under the kitchen's fluorescent light. Her forehead was bleeding, no doubt injured by a shard of glass. He sat her down and retrieved the First Aid Kit from beneath the bathroom sink.

He cleaned the gash up as best as he could and then slathered it with antibacterial ointment. "That should do it," he announced. "How about something to help the nerves? I make a mean hot cocoa. It's a three bean blend."

Quinn smiled delicately as he washed his hands and fixed three steaming mugs of hot chocolate. She sat quietly for the most part, hands clasped in her lap, eyes fumbling all over the place-at the kettle on the stove, at the magnetic picture frames and ancient crayon-rendered art spotting the fridge.

"Thank you," she said politely when Jerry offered her marshmallows.

Quinn knew she shouldn't be drinking hot chocolate, especially not hot chocolate studded with marshmallow buoys, or after 6pm as per Ms. Sylvester's dietary outline, but she reasoned Ms. Sylvester's rules only applied to real life, that is, real life as Quinn knew it, not the awful parody it had developed into in the last hour.

"What were you doing sleeping in your car, sweetie?"

Quinn blanked, brought the Santa-shaped mug to her lips to buy some time. "I had a…," she said, clearing her throat, "a… fight with my parents."

Jerry nodded, "I see."

"Please don't tell them."

Paul covered her hand with his, "Your secret is safe with us."

"Thank you," she sighed.

They sipped hot cocoa in pleasant silence and by the time her stomach was inundated with the chocolaty warmth, Quinn couldn't help but yawn and sway a little in her seat. Paul and Jerry took note and ushered the faintly protesting girl to their guest bedroom.

"We insist," said Paul. "We can't, with good conscience, let you drive in your state. Imagine if you were to fall asleep behind the wheel!"

Quinn thought it was a sensible request, plus she'd never been particularly attracted to the idea of going home, ever. So she stayed, wished the heads of the Berry household a good night, pulled the square mosaic accent sheets up to her shoulders and fell asleep with the notion that she'd soon enough actualize her innate, eight year long desire to see Rachel Berry.


	5. Chapter 5

When Quinn woke up it was to the sound of violent retching. She rubbed the slumber out her eyes and tiptoed down the hall to investigate.

It wasn't how Quinn envisioned their reunion, not that she envisioned it… much. Rachel was on her knees, hugging the toilet bowl like a life preserver. It was a deplorable sight, there before her sat her childhood hero, knocked off her pedestal and reduced to little more than an aisle 5 spill-up.

Quinn batted her own nauseous feelings down. "Rachel?" she said, taking a tentative step forward.

The brunette drew her head back to squint up at Quinn, "Who the hell are you?"

"Do you need help?"

Rachel sharply turned back to the toilet bowl and Quinn took the opportunity to advance. She closed the door and laid a hand on Rachel's shuddering back before delicately gathering her hair in a messy ponytail.

When it seemed like the brunette was finished, Quinn tied Rachel's hair up with her own red Cheerios-issued ponytail holder.

Quinn filled the rinsing cup near the sink with cool tap water, "You need to re-hydrate."

"I am more than capable of remedying this situation myself."

"Look, I'm not questioning your capabilities or whatever, I'm just trying to help."

"I don't need your help."

"But I—"

"Just leave me alone."

"I can't. I would if I could, but you kind of just totaled my car."

"You!" she seethed. "Where's the film?"

"Film?"

"The pictures you took, where are they?"

"I don't know you that well," Quinn lied, "so I'm going to assume that you're just really, really wasted— I've been there. One time, at the Cheerios' annual post-indoctrination party," she coyly mentions her Cheerios affiliation because she thinks it will impress Rachel, "I thought this foreign exchange student Sven was a Russian spy-"

"You _would_ have me believe that I'm suffering from some sort of alcohol-induced paranoid delusion," Rachel panted. "Just give me the pictures!" Rachel tried to stand, to brace herself on wobbly elbows.

Quinn took a step back.

The brunette reached out, but only managed to haplessly bowl herself over so that she was now splayed before Quinn, even more helpless and pathetic than before. Quinn swallowed as she knelt down. "Let me help you," she said gently, "I'm not who you think I am."

"You're going to have to do much better than that."

"I…," Quinn licked her lips, "I just wanted to know if the rumors were true. I heard someone saw you in town. I was… curious."

Quinn offered Rachel the cup of water with an encouraging nod.

"And then what?" Rachel grudgingly accepted the water, "You Googled me? Pulled up some lame Lima Times article detailing my high school achievements? Stalked me in hopes of selling unflattering candid shots to sleazy, but well-circulated tabloid magazines? Or perhaps you were biding your time to burglarize my childhood home for eBay-worthy mementos? I believe they call that procedure "casing." Pawning off used undergarments and spent coffee grinds to the highest bidder will not get you far in life-"

"What?" Quinn frowned, "No, no, it isn't like that, I swear."

"Do you know what your reluctance is screaming at me? What your vagueness is spelling out? Guilty. I should call the authorities and have you carted to the gallows!"

"Gallows? I don't think they do that anymore—"

"That's beside the point!"

"It's not a good idea to call the cops."

"Says the criminal."

"If I'm a criminal, so are you. Do I have to remind you of the fact that you went rogue warrior on my car with an umbrella? Kind of like Brittany Spears. Actually, a lot like Brittany Spears…"

"You would have done the same thing," Rachel glowered, trying to refocus her bleary eyes.

"I don't know that I would have."

"You would have done the same thing."

"What happened to you?" Quinn uttered in bewilderment. "I'm not a wannabe paparazzo or even some celebrity-obsessed kid, okay?" Quinn rubbed at the back of her neck, blushing hotly as she said, voice wavering,"You used to babysit me."

Quinn waited for a response, a sliver of recognition or an outcry of denial, but none came so Quinn nervously continued, "Most days after school and every Saturday night. You helped me with my pirouettes and taught me how to tie my shoes and count to 100 in Spanish. We buried my guinea pig in your backyard because my mom wouldn't let me bury him in mine. You sang me to sleep and I still have the stupid gold star you gave me when you went away-"

Rachel's demeanor softened, "You threw it at me at the airport."

"I waited until you disappeared down the terminal and dove beneath the concession stand to find it. I stained my dress," Quinn swallowed, "My mom was so mad, but I didn't care."

"Quinn Fabray."

"You remember."

"Why wouldn't I?" Rachel hissed. She shut her eyes and circled her arms around her legs. "This isn't what it looks like."

"I'm a teenager. I have a social life. I think I'm pretty familiar with the symptoms of a hangover—"

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh. Right."

"I'm not," Rachel swallowed, "the next Lindsay or Wynona. This," she waved, "is a gargantuan misunderstanding."

"I never… That thought never crossed my mind."

"Yeah right," Rachel snorted. "It's okay. I deserve it. If it's any consolation I'm sorry about the car."

Quinn nodded, "I know."

"I'll have it towed to my dad's mechanic and have the damage appraised. I would appreciate it if you kept this happenstance to yourself. I'm prepared to match any and all tabloid-driven monetary incentives-"

"I told you already, I don't want your money, but you're probably not going to listen to me," Quinn snorted. "You should drink some more water. I have to get to sleep, I have school in the morning."


End file.
